


with an iron fist

by cress_ent



Series: our fire rages, our hearts are never tame [2]
Category: Dream SMP war - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Sleepy Bois Inc, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Study, Dream SMP War, Gen, Monologue, l'manberg, otherwise known as, wilbur monologues at dream for 2k words, wilbur's descent into madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27001729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cress_ent/pseuds/cress_ent
Summary: Wilbur’s laugh fades into a dry chuckle, fades into a smirk matched with a pair of deranged eyes. “Oh, it feels so good to be able to drop it all — the facades, the lies, everything I had to do to get the others to rally behind me. I can see why you enjoy it so much, ruling from your iron throne — it’s just so much easier, isn’t it? Knowing that you can crush it all if need be beneath an equally iron fist?”-or, in which wilbur loses everything. (his son) (his friends) (his nation) (himself)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: our fire rages, our hearts are never tame [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970710
Comments: 4
Kudos: 108





	with an iron fist

“Dream, can we talk?”

They’re standing just outside the hidden entrance to Pogtopia, the wind whistling between the trees that surround them — Dream, in full armour, the subtle shimmer of violet indicating the magic woven into the metal; Wilbur, in a torn trench coat, a familiar beanie, decorated in eyebags and bandages. The juxtaposition isn’t unfamiliar, but it isn’t any less startling. (Or discouraging.) It’s just them, for now; Tommy left, ran off to  _ Manberg _ (Wilbur will never forgive Schlatt for that; for many things, but mostly for that, for disgracing the legacy of a nation he worked so hard to build) to go talk to Tubbo, most likely, or start another inane building project that has an 80% chance of getting them all found and killed. Wilbur never knows where Techno is and has given up on trying to keep track of him.

They stand together, alone, between the trees, a forgotten king and a fallen ruler, the only ones who could even have a chance at understanding one another. 

Dream regards him for a moment — it unnerves Wilbur every time, the unchanging and unforgiving face painted on the mask he’s never caught without, the way each pursing of his lips or smile is the only insight they get into his expressions. He nods, and Wilbur lets out a breath, and Dream follows him into Pogtopia, down the stone stairs that open into a wider ravine, the only place he could even consider calling home. (He doesn’t — home is, was, L’Manberg, and at this point it’s far gone.) There’s a campfire set up by one wall — it’s almost burned down, but Wilbur throws a couple logs on it, and sparks fly up at the movement, and it’s good enough — and a few scavenged mugs resting atop a furnace. Wilbur fills them with tea leaves, with water, and sets them back on the furnace, lighting the coal in its belly, warm orange light filling the ravine. (It wouldn’t be a meeting if he didn’t at least try to offer what hospitality they could afford.)

“Tommy doesn’t seem like he likes your plan,” Dream says, fingers tapping against the handle of the axe holstered at his waist, the dark metal shimmering with the same soft energy as his armour. 

“ _ Tommy _ ,” Wilbur says, “is too blind to see why it’s our only option.” He busies himself with the methodical motions of preparing the tea, to distract himself from the sudden chill of fear that races down his spine at the glint of Dream’s axe in the warm light of the campfire. (He never forgets, never drops his guard — Dream might be on their side for now, but he is still the same powerful man that nearly tore L’Manberg apart again and again and again. He is not a man to be messed with or taken lightly.) “You— you should know better than anyone, Dream — how  _ easy  _ it is to get your way when you use force.”

Dream says nothing, but the grip of his hands against the handle of his axe tells Wilbur everything he needs to know. He brings the mugs of tea over to where Dream is sitting, setting one in front of him before taking a long sip from the other. It burns his tongue, but the heat is welcome. He’s so cold. 

“I tried using words,” Wilbur says, taking a seat opposite Dream, the heat of the campfire against his side. He stares off at the far wall of the ravine, of the cold, unforgiving stone. “Using glory, the revolution, all these  _ ideals _ and this— this beautiful, attractive rhetoric of fighting back against oppression — which, no offense, but you absolutely  _ were _ a tyrant as soon as we tried to revolt, even if you weren’t before—”

“None taken.”

“See? You understand.” A smile starts to spread across Wilbur’s face, but it fades as soon as he remembers where he is. Who he’s talking to. What he’s meant to do. “And as soon as I stick to these principles— you know,  _ democracy  _ and  _ integrity _ and all that, you know what happens?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Wilbur sees Dream turn to regard him, and he silently celebrates the fact that clearly, his words have not lost their golden shine. “I lose  _ everything _ — my nation, my son, my power. Gone. Every last bit of it.”

A frown crosses Dream’s face. “Not  _ everything _ — you’ve got Tubbo, you’ve got this commune, you’ve got Niki and Eret—”

“Tubbo,” Wilbur says, his voice quiet, barely constrained rage pulsing up against the steely confines of his control, “is working with Schlatt.” He takes another burning sip of tea. Dream’s barely touched his; Wilbur’s mug is half-empty. “Eret, if you’ll remember, is the king of  _ your _ nation. I wouldn’t trust him any farther than I could throw him. And Niki?” He laughs, a dry and bitter thing. “Niki’s stuck in  _ Manberg _ with the rest of the traitors. She’s no better off than we are.”

Dream’s never been a man of many words; he is blunt and straightforward and to the point, and that’s evident now more than ever, with how silent he stays, studying Wilbur quietly behind that emotionless mask of his. 

“There’s only one way,” Wilbur says, letting his voice dip down in volume until he knows Dream is straining to hear, paying rapt attention to his every word. “You know exactly why — hell, there’s a reason we kept losing to you in that first war. Why it took Tommy trading his discs to finally get our freedom.”

Wilbur lets the answer hang in the air between them, lets the tension rise and crescendo like a perfect symphony that he is the conductor of, he wants Dream to say it, wants him to bring it upon himself to be the tipping point for Wilbur’s unmasking.

“Force.” Wilbur looks up, meeting Dream’s eyes — staring into the painted eyes on his somehow flawless porcelain mask. “We kept winning because we were stronger,” Dream says. “That’s what you’re saying, what you’re dancing around, isn’t it.”

He lets out a laugh, throwing his head back, marvelling at how it echoes between the stone walls of the ravine. “Oh, you  _ do  _ understand!” Wilbur drains the rest of his tea; it does nothing to warm him; he stands, begins pacing in front of the campfire. “The time for pretty words and rhetoric and convincing speeches is  _ over _ , Dream — if I want even a  _ chance _ at being able to take back everything I lost, or make sure that no one else can get it, well; I have to use force, don’t I!”

Wilbur’s laugh fades into a dry chuckle, fades into a smirk matched with a pair of deranged eyes. “Oh, it feels so good to be able to drop it all — the facades, the  _ lies _ , everything I had to do to get the others to rally behind me. I can see why you enjoy it so much, ruling from your iron throne — it’s just so much easier, isn’t it? Knowing that you can crush it all if need be beneath an equally iron fist?”

Dream goes silent for a moment, and it’s just Wilbur, walking grooves into the stone beneath his feet, walking a familiar path in an unfamiliar place. “Did you ever believe in any of it?” Dream asks, voice more serious than Wilbur’s heard before. (That’s new — Dream always approached their battles with a certain lightness, something that made it feel as if he was just playing a game, as if every fight and every encounter was just pieces moved around on some grand chessboard Wilbur could never see. It only serves to unnerve him all the more.) “The call to fight oppression, the revolution, independence?”

The question startles Wilbur, a little — it’s not what he expected, and he (for once) doesn’t have an answer prepared. “A part of me, maybe,” is what he gets out, once he’s recovered from his initial shock. “They’re noble ideals to fight for, aren’t they?” Wilbur had it all thought out, since he first stepped foot into these lands, since he felt that burning and yearning in his chest for power, for a way to claim some part of this for himself. “With those as the causes I was heralding, well — it was easy to get others to rally behind me. Who doesn’t want to be on the right side of history? They lifted me up as their leader, they chose me to speak for them and guide them through the war, and it was  _ easy _ , it was so incredibly easy to get them to believe me when we were fighting for such pretty ideals.” He unsheathes his sword, its weight familiar in Wilbur’s hands as he grips its handle. Dream’s guard is down, his hand has moved from the handle of his axe, and Wilbur knows he won’t be able to topple his greatest enemy so easily, but he loses nothing by reminding Dream that yes, he is still a threat.

In a quick, sweeping movement — Wilbur stayed out of battle when it came to the fight for L’Manberg, but that has never meant that he’s bad with a sword — the tip of his shimmering blue blade is at Dream’s throat, tipping up his chin so he can look Wilbur in the eyes. “But, really — you were never an enemy until I made you out to be one. You were never a force of oppression until I gave you reason to be.”

Quicker than Wilbur can see, a gleaming, dark blade clangs against his own, sending it scattering, away from them. Dream is quick, and Wilbur daren’t fight him one on one — there’s no chance in hell he’d win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” Wilbur dares him, as he stands with the edge of a netherite axe against his neck, hands at his sides, a half-grin gracing his lips. 

Dream opens his mouth to speak, but nothing escapes him, and his blade returns to his side, still as his words.

“Did I need to believe any of it?” Wilbur doesn’t care anymore if Dream sees him for what he really is. It’s only a matter of time before Tommy realizes and leaves him alone, the same way Eret left and Tubbo left and Fundy left, and they all leave in the end, they always do, he is so alone. “If I was nothing more than a messenger, did it matter whether or not the words I delivered were true?”

Wilbur’s talking to himself more than anything; Dream doesn’t seem to mind, sipping quietly at his tea. “It’s the only way we can still win, really,” Wilbur says. “Either we blow Manberg sky-high, and I come out on top; or it falls to pieces. No one wants to fight for the throne of a kingdom that doesn’t exist.”

Dream sets his mug down on the stone beside the campfire, standing up and securing his axe to the holster on his back. “I’ll see you around,” he says, heading towards the stone staircase carved into the wall. 

“Leaving so soon?”

A wry smile spreads across Dream’s face, the only hint at his expressions Wilbur can ever glean. “I’ve got my own nation to manage.”

Wilbur lets him get halfway up the staircase before he speaks again, revelling in how even here, in a makeshift commune set up in a cold, stone ravine, his words still carry the same commanding power they did when he made his speeches from the top of a nation. “You know, Dream — you and I… we’re cut from the same cloth.”

“Oh, come on now — what similarities could there  _ possibly _ be between us? You, with your words, me with my axe…”

Wilbur quirks an eyebrow at Dream, pointing his sword at him and staring him down along the sharp edge of his sword. “And when it comes down to it, when we’re at our most desperate — we both reach for a blade, don’t we?” He lets out a small laugh, quick and fleeting. “Well, I guess I went straight for explosives. But the point still stands, Dream — we both rule with an iron fist. We just had different ways of climbing to the throne.”

**Author's Note:**

> so this might be a series now!!! considering how easily these two pieces came to me i honestly want to keep going with this a little so ,, stick around if you enjoy?
> 
> this series is heavily inspired by not only the events of the dream smp war, but the soldier/poet/king dynamic coined by [this uquiz!](https://uquiz.com/quiz/MYLbZ3/are-you-a-soldier-a-poet-or-a-king) if tommy is a king with soldier tendencies, then wilbur is a soldier that pretends to be a poet. (hopefully those words make a little more sense after these two character studies.)
> 
> find me [here](https://twitter.com/MANGOP1E) on twitter!
> 
> kudos and comments make my day!!


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